Sunday Morning Donuts
by LadyDivine91
Summary: When their favorite donut shop runs out and closes up for the day, a GrubHub driver with loose lips leads Santana and Mercedes to Kurt and Blaine's door, where they unknowingly interrupt a Sunday morning tradition. Kurt H. Blaine A. Klaine.


_Knock-knock-knock._

…

_Knock-knock-knock._

…

_BANGBANGBANGBANG!_

"Kurt! Blaine! Open this door! We know you're in there!" Santana yells, slamming on their thick metal door with her fist. Down the hall, a neighbor rolls their door open a slit and grumbles loudly: "Can you please keep it down? There are people trying to sleep!"

"No!" Santana snaps, not looking their way. "This is an emergency!"

Mercedes, more concerned about not causing problems between Kurt, Blaine, and their neighbors, says, "We'll try to keep it down. _Right, Santana_?"

But Santana ignores them both and slams on the door harder. The older woman mutters, "_Bitch_," under her breath and closes her door with a fairly substantial slam.

"Only in New York," Mercedes says, figuring that poor old lady is probably thinking the same thing.

"One minute, one minute, _hold on_!" Kurt bellows, voice sliding up in pitch. "I'm _coming_!"

"Well don't take all day about it!" Santana yells with her lips an inch from the seam between the wall and the door. "We's got some serious business to discuss!"

"Yeah, yeah …" Kurt's voice flutters, sustaining what sounds like a prolonged yawn. After that, the loft goes quiet. Santana glues her ear to the door. She hears Kurt groan, strained and labored, followed seconds later by angry footsteps marching towards her. The heavy door shakes and rumbles as Kurt pushes it open. Dressed in what might be only a robe, he leans against the frame, looking from Santana to Mercedes with arms crossed.

He doesn't even try to say _hello_ first.

He knows he won't get it out in time.

"Where are they!?" Santana demands.

"Good morning, ladies," Kurt says, rubbing his eyes. "And to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?"

"Don't play _asleep_ with me! I know you have them! Which means you've been up a while! A half hour at least!"

"At least …" Kurt mimics.

"Have what?" Blaine asks, trundling up behind his husband in the same exhausted state.

"Donuts!"

Kurt's face pinches. "It's _Sunday morning_! The majority of the country is probably eating donuts! That doesn't mean that _we_ have any!"

"Au contraire, mon frere! I happen to have it on good authority that you guys ordered two dozen gourmet donuts from the Donut Pub and had them delivered via GrubHub! The _last_ two dozen before they closed up shop for the day!"

Kurt's eyebrow arches sharply. "And _how_ would you know that?"

"We were on line to buy some," Mercedes explains. "We were right about to order when they said they were out. Santana saw a GrubHub driver heading to his car …"

"… and I stopped him. Asked him what was up and he told me. I tried to buy a few donuts off him, but he wouldn't give 'em up."

"Well, good for him for doing his job," Kurt says smugly.

"Yeah, but, for five bucks, he told us where he was going," Mercedes sheepishly admits. Kurt and Blaine both gasp.

"_What_!? That's … that's … that's got to be against some kind of company policy!" Blaine exclaims.

"And after I gave him a ten dollar tip, too!"

"Why would he do that!? The two of you could be serial killers!"

"Which _means_ …" Santana interrupts, trying to bring the conversation back to the subject of her lack of pastry "… you guys are either both off your diets, or you're having some sort of breakfast party …"

"_Kinky_ breakfast party …" Mercedes snickers, looking the robe-clad men up and down.

"… and you didn't invite us!"

Blaine shoots Kurt a look – a worried look, Mercedes notices. Kurt shakes his head, his mouth drawn into a tight and unamused line. "As unlikely as both those scenarios are, no. There is no _party_. Just me, my husband, and _the last of the donuts_," Kurt gloats, leaning in to Santana's face when he does.

"But why two dozen?" Mercedes asks. "That's a _lot_ of donuts for the two of you."

"Donut Pub gives you a discount on delivery via GrubHub if you spend a certain amount," Blaine says. "Otherwise, you're spending the same, just getting less donuts."

"So we get what sounds good," Kurt puts in, "and whatever we don't eat, I take to _Vogue_."

Mercedes looks at Santana and shrugs. "Sounds reasonable."

Santana huffs. "Don't care. I still wants me some donuts, and I'm not leaving here till I get some!"

Kurt glares at her, then looks over at his husband and sighs. He could say no. Could slam the door in their faces and go on with his life, but that would mean punishing one of his best friends in the world for something that was probably only Santana's idea. Besides, Santana wouldn't leave. She would plant herself on the floor in front of their door and yell obscenities in English and Spanish until they gave her what she wanted. Even if they ate all the donuts (which, thank God, they haven't) they'd have to order more from somewhere else just to get her to shut up.

He's not going through that again.

"Glazed?" he asks, staring at her with all the venom of a brown recluse. "Powdered? Filled?"

Santana smiles and Kurt hates it. That tiny twist of victory makes him seethe, makes him want to grab every donut they have and grind them in her face. But in her sick mind she'd still see it as a win since she'd have all the donuts (wearing, more accurately) and he'd have none.

"I saw them pack your order. I know for a fact that you have the crème brulee, the salted caramel, the raspberry cremes, the cinnamon toast crunch, the Belgian dark chocolate, and the lavender and chai tea."

"Yeah?"

"We want one of each."

Kurt looks at Blaine again and, after a significant moment, nods. Blaine pulls a face of annoyance, but also acceptance. There's no winning this one.

Not unless they consider moving.

"One moment," Blaine says, voice dripping with fake politeness as he turns and walks back into the loft. Kurt flashes Santana a toothy grin-mace while Mercedes mouths, '_Sorry_,' behind her back.

Blaine comes back moments later with a brown paper bag cinched at the top and hands it over.

"There you go," he says in a sourly-sweet voice. "One of each."

"Let's hope they don't go straight to your thighs," Kurt adds.

Santana smirks, snatching the bag out of his hand. "Thick thighs save lives."

"Good bye, Santana," Kurt says, pulling the door closed.

"What? You're not even going to invite us in for coffee?" Santana teases.

"No."

"Let's go, Tana." Mercedes grabs the bag out of her hands and heads towards the stairs. "Let's leave them be. You got what you wanted."

Kurt rolls the door shut, throws the bolts, then rests his back against it, listening as Santana chases Mercedes, and her donuts, down the hall. When her voice dissolves down the staircase, Kurt looks at Blaine.

Blaine looks at Kurt.

The two of them sputter.

Then they start laughing.

"God, I hate her!" Kurt chokes out, only half joking.

"It's a good thing the guy from GrubHub gave us the heads up that he was being harassed!"

"Yeah, but I'm still not thrilled that he told."

"True," Blaine agrees. "Maybe we'll go with Postmates next time. We'll put in the notes that they'll get tipped extra for leading any potential stalkers astray."

"Like that would work! Santana's part bloodhound, I'm sure of it!" Kurt shakes the last of the laughter out of his chest, then fixes dark, bedroom eyes on his husband. "You still good to go?"

Blaine's laughter peters in his throat as he meets his husband's gaze with a sultry one of his own. "Absolutely. Who goes first this time?"

"I think … _you_." Kurt grins, down to take charge, siphon back some control after the b.s. that just took place.

"That's what I was hoping you'd say." Blaine unties his robe and lets it fall to the ground, leaving him naked and hard, the way they had been before Santana started banging at their door. They walk to the kitchen, and Blaine sits in his favorite chair.

"Crème Brulee?" Kurt asks, fingers dancing over the remaining donuts, some half eaten, partially violated, waiting, as Blaine is, for their chance to be devoured completely. "Belgian Dark Chocolate?"

"The Crème Brulee, I think." Blaine settles in, legs spread, his impatient erection bobbing at the thought of the sweet way his husband is about to go down on him, of how long it takes to eat these particularly dense confections.

Kurt slips the hole of the donut over Blaine's flushed head, careful not to crack the icing, then slides the ring slowly down his husband's shaft, watching it travel with watering mouth and hungry eyes. "Excellent choice."


End file.
